Fragments of Two Centuries: Glimpses of Country Life when George III. was King

by Alfred Kingston

THE HUNT BREAKFAST.

Sir Peter was a dark, handsome man, of great muscular power and activity. It was commonly said that he could plant a dozen hurdles only a yard apart and clear them one at a time. As a horseman he had few equals, and was famous for the condition of his horses, which were the best turned out in the hunting field, and Sir Peter himself made a notable figure in his skin-fit leather breeches. It was the fashion then to wear the hunting breeches so tight that it would have been impossible to get into them but for the expedient of hanging them in the cellar or some damp place overnight! Even then, to put them on was no child's play, and Sir Peter, it is said, used to put his on by sliding down the bannister! In this way he got into garments which fitted him like a second skin, and, regardless of the dampness of them, rode out in the pink of condition, on the best horse in the district! Unless reports did him injustice, the sporting baronet was devotedly attached to the bottle, and more than once came to grief when driving his pony home from Cambridge, when he would be picked up by one of the "fly" wagons and given a lift to the Black Horse at Fowlmere. Of Sir Peter in other sporting aspects more will be said presently.

The Heath appears to have been associated with other forms of sport, from the following lines taken from a local poet, to whose picturesque descriptions and facile handling of the heroic measure, I must be indebted in this chapter. I refer to a book entitled "Visions of Childhood," by W. Warren Butler, of Barkway, printed and published by John Warren in 1843. Of one questionable form of sport on the Heath, he writes—

Here on this very spot, here have I seen
Such bloody deeds performed upon the ground;
And men have search'd the secret coverts round,
Where ev'ry harmless rabbit could be found.
******
The innocent collection in a sack,
Are carelessly slung round their murd'rer's back
And one by one let loose with joy they fly;
This moment they are free—the next they die,
The savage hound set on amidst the fray,
Seizes and tears their little lives away,
While laughter from all sides his valour draws,
And even fair ones pat him with applause.

As to other kinds of sport, it may be mentioned that sportsmen then not only managed with flint guns, but were often mounted on ponies; for, while the open field system enabled them to mark and follow the birds in any direction, it often meant a longer journey for a bag than under more modern conditions of sport, while dogs played a much more important part in sport than to-day.

Then, it was no uncommon thing for the inhabitants of this, as of other districts, to go a long distance to be present at some sporting event. As late as 1831, every available horse, cob or donkey, that could be mounted was ridden to Newmarket, where about 20,000 persons assembled to witness Osbaldiston's astonishing feat of riding two hundred miles in ten hours, or twenty miles an hour on horseback for ten successive hours, for one thousand guineas! He was allowed eight horses for changes, standing constantly saddled for him to jump off one on to the other, and on again in his flying career at each time round the "Beacon" course of four miles. The feat was accomplished in a little less than the ten hours.

To come back once more to sport on Royston Heath in the years immediately following George III.'s reign, I find the following with reference to the revival of the Royston Races, which had flourished so famously during the last century under the name of the Odsey Races.

In the spring of 1827 it is recorded that the Heath "was much crowded to witness a match between a mare, the property of Sir Peter Soame, of Heydon, and a horse, the property of Mr. T. Berry, of Hertingfordbury. Other matches were run by hunters belonging to those present; and, at a subsequent meeting in July, arrangements were made for a regular programme, and a cup for competition the following year; and from that time the races continued for many years."

The revived Races were held every year on the 14th May, whereas the old Odsey Race meeting was in September. Among the stewards appear the names of Lord Hardwicke, Mr. Brand, Mr. Delme Radcliffe and Mr. Barnett, while Mr. George Smith was the treasurer and clerk of the course.

In 1836, when Lord Hardwicke and Mr. Brand were stewards, it is stated that there were from five to six thousand persons present, and as to the character of the gathering, we are told that—

"The usual attendants at all amusements of this kind were there, and succeeded in victimizing a few who were green enough to fancy they had a chance of increasing their funds on the race-course."

Genteel at first, with a grand-stand erected on the course and numerous booths for refreshments, these Races became in less repute as time went on and were associated with many disagreeable incidents. Of the general characteristics of the scene of these Races in their best days during the present century, Mr. Butler's poem gives us a vivid picture. The preparations for the event are shown, where

Many a pole stripp'd of its native rind,
Bears a pink flag, that rattles in the wind;
And all the rustic villagers around
Behold with wond'rous eyes the hallow'd ground,
And often pause to view the massive roll,
Bear down the turf, and level round the goal.

Of the morning of the Races and the concourse of people coming in from all points of the compass, we get a glimpse

For ten miles round, each village yields
Its bumpkin swains, and labour quits the fields.
******
{134} Full many a smock shines white as driven snow,
With pea-green smalls, whose polished buttons glow.
******
Nor they alone the glorious sight to share,
Their master's family will sure be there.
Lo! the old wagon, lumb'ring on the road,
Bears on its pond'rous sides the noisy load.
Lopp'd is the vig'rous tree, its spreading boughs
Cling to the sides, and shade their vacant brows.

Other characters, too, of the dandy type are coming in

For many a sprightly Cantab springs to view,
Borne swiftly on upon his licens'd steed,
That all the day ne'er knows what 'tis to feed;
Cantabs and bumpkins, blacklegs wend along,
And squires and country nobles join the throng!
******
Loud sounds the knotty thong upon the backs
Of poor half-starv'd and kennel-smelling hacks.

In this fashion the noisy streams feed the growing crowd, as it nears the "painted landmark," where

With what delight they view, the colours fly,
That flap and flutter 'neath a windy sky.

Then we get a glimpse of the gentleman jockey as he "quits the just machine"—

Strutting along equipp'd in vest of silk.
******
Full many a hat is doff'd as he draws near,
For gentlemen themselves turn jockeys here.

We see him sitting there on his mount "impatient for the start, while by his side, with equal pomp his lofty rivals ride," and anon the signal is given, and they are off! "Bending thousands raise a rending cry," and the incidents which accompany the exciting event are well described in the following lines—

And while all eyes are fixed upon the goal,
The skilful lads from town are on the prowl,
Swift fly the steeds along the even green,
Bored by the bloody spur, and quickly seen
The champion full in front, and as he goes
He wins by half a head, or half a nose;
Then betting fair ones fumble for their purse,
Eager the trifling wager to disburse.
Alas! they've nothing hanging by their side,
Save but the string by which the bag was tied,
For through the silken dress a gash is seen,
Where the pick-pocket's impious knife hath been!

But others besides the fair sex were sufferers from the same cause, while the "thimble-player" plied his trade and secured the attention of some countryman with "cash in his fob and forward with his prate."

But old balances of this sort had a way of getting righted, and many will remember the scene here depicted—

Thinking all safe, the sharper wends his way,
But soon his foolish dupes get up a fray.
******
So the poor mortal, by the raging pack,
Receives the heavy throng upon his back,
Until he sinks, exhausted by their rage,
And finds, perchance, a lodging in the cage!

Such were the Royston Races during the present century. Their abolition some twenty years ago, and the scenes of disorder and of shop robberies in the town, which had marked the moribund stage of their course, are too familiar to most Roystonians to need further notice here.

From Royalty, down to the smallest stable or errand boy in the land, prize-fighting, or "the noble art of self-defence," as it was grandiloquently styled, was really looked up to as a manly and worthy spectacle during the first quarter of the present century, and a little later. When the Prince Regent, afterwards George IV., did not think it beneath his royal dignity to pet and encourage professional "bruisers," to attend the prize-ring, shake hands with Tom Cribb, the champion, or drive through the streets with a celebrated boxer in his carriage; and, when Gully, the champion, could be returned as a member of Parliament for Pontefract, it is not surprising to find the craze descending through all ranks of society. I am obliged to introduce into these Sketches something of this "seedy" side of the early years of the century, because, for good or evil, the neighbourhood of Royston was frequently the scene of some of the more notable contests in the prize-ring.

Farther back, about the middle of the reign of George III., these contests appear to have been almost entirely free, not only from any interruptions from the magistracy and the constable, but also from any risk of it. The result was that most elaborate arrangements were made not merely for the convenience of the combatants, but more especially with a view to make it a spectacle not unworthy of an arena of a Roman amphitheatre of old. Thus, in 1789, on February 11th, when Johnson and Ryan gave their patrons at Rickmansworth, Herts., a set-to which, we are told, "was prodigiously fine," it was found that four thousand persons had subscribed their guineas, half-guineas, and crowns, and so, as it was impossible for the event to come off in the yard of the Bell Inn, a stage was erected round the sides of a gravel pit in the bottom of which the fight took place. The "door money" was divided equally between the combatants, and amounted to 512 pounds.

In later years it was usual to select some spot where the combatants and their friends could, if interrupted by any Justice of the Peace more courageous than his fellows, speedily cross over into another county and another jurisdiction. For this purpose few parts of the country offered better facilities than the neighbourhood of Royston; especially such spots as Noon's Folly, near the borders of three counties—Herts., Cambs., and Essex—or Royston Heath, from which it was easy to cross over from Herts. into Cambs. This precaution was not often really needed, for the magistrate and the constable either did not appear or were themselves passive spectators of the exciting scene. One exception may, however, be made, for I believe Mr. John George Fordham (father of Mr. Henry Fordham) had the courage to go and interfere with a fight on the Heath, and when they adopted the tactics of crossing over into Cambridgeshire, thinking he was not a magistrate for that county, he crossed over after them.

Sir Peter Soame, of Heydon Grange—whose father, Sir Peter Soame, was a gentleman of the Privy Chamber in the Royal household of George III. (in 1798)—has been mentioned as a prominent figure in the hunting and racing world in this chapter. He was also often the chief promoter of encounters in the prize-ring in this district. His residence at Heydon was the scene of many a roistering gathering of the sporting fraternity, and the baronet was such a practised hand himself, that in the event of the fighting men not turning up according to appointment he would himself step into the ring and challenge anyone present if need be, rather than allow the spectators to go away disappointed.

There is a story of Sir Peter told by Mr. Cross in his Autobiography of a Stage Coachman, which, being, on both sides, of a local character, may be worth repeating here. On one occasion a local butcher, named Mumford, who had the reputation of "the fighting butcher," went to Sir Peter's house, just as he had some guests to dinner, to demand payment of a small sum of money. The sporting baronet was equal to the occasion; asking his guests to excuse him a few minutes, he went down into the kitchen, saw the butcher, and asked him if he was not the "fighting butcher." The applicant acknowledged that they did call him by that name. "Well then," replied the baronet "that is the amount you say I owe you, and we will see who is to have it," depositing the money to be handed over. The terms were agreed to, sawdust was brought into the kitchen, and the butcher and baronet stripped and set to, with one or two of the servants to see fair-play. The fight was furious at the outset, but the butcher was soon defeated by the superior science of the baronet, and he had to depart without his money, after which Sir Peter joined his guests in the dining room, as if nothing had occurred!

Perhaps the most memorable event in the prize-ring that ever happened in this neighbourhood was the contest between Jem Ward and Peter Crawley, for the championship, on Royston Heath, on the 2nd January, 1827. The event was the occasion of tremendous excitement, and the concourse of people was enormous. Of the popular aspect of the event on the morning of the fight, the following graphic reminiscence is taken from some autobiographical notes by the late Mr. John Warren, who, however, was too young to know anything further of the event.

"I remember when I was a little boy that the neighbourhood of Royston was the scene of many prize-fights. That between Ward and Crawley for the championship took place when I was a youngster. Early in the morning our High Street was so full of people that you could walk on their heads. My father would not allow me to go on the Heath to witness the prize-fight; so I went to the top of our garden, where I could hear the roar of voices and fancied I could hear the blows!"

This famous "milling" came off on the Heath at the lower end of the cricket ground somewhere near the spot selected for the Jubilee tea in 1887. Cambridge and neighbouring towns sent their thousands of visitors, coaches were loaded and over-loaded, while the villages were nearly emptied.

The greatest precaution appears to have been taken to secure a spot where no interruption would be likely to take place, and with this end in view two places were appointed, one on Royston Heath, and the other at Heydon Grange, the seat of the boxing baronet, Sir Peter Soame. But whichever spot was to be fixed upon, Royston was the rendezvous. Jem Ward, the champion, made his head-quarters at the Red Lion, and Crawley and his friends stopped at "a road house about two miles from Royston." The extraordinary ferment of interest and anxiety in Royston as to where the event was actually to come off was kept up till even the morning of the day! To increase the uncertainty, the parties actually got two rings, and one of them was put up at the famous fighting rendezvous near Heydon Grange, as a ruse; but there was little need of such a precaution. The rumour of the erection of the ring near Heydon Grange got wind, and away went an excited avalanche of human beings, helter-skelter, over fields and hedges that winter's morning, for Heydon Grange, only to find themselves disappointed, and under the necessity of running back as fast as tired legs and panting lungs would carry them! In at least one case a Royston spectator lost his life by the excessive exertion and over-heating!

Upon the site of the battle, at the lower end of the cricket ground, about ten to fifteen thousand persons were assembled, including all classes of society from post-boy to nobleman.

The fight came off about mid-day amidst the utmost excitement and enthusiasm. In an age when fighting was reckoned among the "fine arts," Ward was allowed to be "the finest fighter in England." The rapidity of his movements "gave amazing advantage for the display of his inimitably fine science," says the writer of the account in the Cambridge Chronicle for 1827. "On taking the champion's belt many sprung up in bravado, but none in arms sufficiently hardy to dispute his well-earned honours. At length, Peter Crawley got backed against him. Crawley was a giant and stood 6 feet, 2 inches, while Ward was 5 feet, 9 inches, and stout and active."

I am not going to describe the scene further, beyond the remark that the fighting was a furious and tremendous onslaught upon each other, so that in the space of twenty-six minutes, and after eleven rounds, both men were perfectly exhausted, and in a wretched plight. Crawley had his cheek laid open and both eyes nearly closed, and Ward could not stand.

In this short space the two pugilists had reduced themselves to the pitiable condition of simply mauling each other, hugging each other, and because Crawley just managed to push Ward down and he could not rally in time, the champion lost his belt!

The scene as described by eye witnesses, of whom there are very few living, as well as from the facts on record from which I have quoted, must have been a brutal one as we now look upon such things, though it was considered a grand and memorable spectacle to thousands of those assembled on our fine old Heath!

Jem Ward, who was generally looked upon as a little above the ordinary run of pugilists in intelligence and education, lived to an old age, and died only a few years ago.

The frequency of these pugilistic encounters naturally had some effect upon, and was reflected in the local life of the period, and the amount of fighting at fairs and village feasts was in striking contrast with the rarity of such exhibitions now-a-days. The undergraduates from Cambridge gloried in being mixed up with, and promoting such scenes of disorder, and it is well-known that in the "Town and Gown rows" at Cambridge, they sometimes engaged some well-known champion—such as Peter Crawley, who defeated Jem Ward, on Royston Heath—to do the "slogging." They would attend village feasts in such company, and when their riotous conduct had provoked the young men of the village to a general row, these professionals set-to and often made short work of the fray. It was in one such exhibition at the Melbourn feast in the early years of the century that J. King earned the title of the Royston champion, and, for a time, gained more than a local repute.

The undergraduates were bent upon their old game, led by the Hon. George Fitzwilliam, then of Trinity College, and accompanied by two noted pugilists, "Soapy Dan" and a big black man named Mahone. After the men of light and leading from the University had run a course of outrageous conduct towards all and sundry that came in their way, there was the customary general fight, and the two pugilists played terrible havoc among the Melbourn young fellows, till, to the surprise of the visitors, one of the Melbourn party, J. King, came forward, floored "Soapy Dan," and next had a regular set-to with the great black man, whom, after a sharp fight, he vanquished also, to the amazement of the Honorable George. The latter had staked ten guineas on the issue, which he handed over to the Royston champion, took a mighty fancy to him, and "took him in hand." He brought him to London, where, after a short training, he met Jack Power at the noted fighting rendezvous of Mousley Hurst, on an issue of L50 a side. The battle was a terrible one, and though the Royston, or rather Melbourn, champion, was the least skilful of the two, he fought for 47 rounds before giving in to his better-trained antagonist, and practically closed a fighting career which was as surprising as it was brief.

Better remembered perhaps by some who are still living, was a notable prize-fight which, though it carries us a little beyond the era of the Georges, cannot be passed by in these Glimpses of the past, as it affords a striking instance of the fascination which the prize-fighting ring had over many young men of good birth and education, and marks what was practically the disappearance of these exhibitions from this locality. This was the fight between "Owen Swift," a practised hand, and "Brighton Bill," otherwise William Phelps, a young man of only twenty years of age, who had seen little of such encounters and was believed to have been deserving of a more useful career than that which was so suddenly cut off by the fatal fight which, in the year 1838, caused many persons in this neighbourhood to look with shame upon, and to turn with disgust from such exhibitions. The combat took place near Noon's Folly, on the Newmarket Road; Barkway, on the Cambridge coach road, being the head-quarters of the pugilists. It created an immense amount of interest, and, after a brutal exhibition, the unfortunate young man from Brighton simply allowed himself to be pummelled to death, the outcome being an inquest and a trial for manslaughter at the Herts. Assizes.

The evidence given at the inquest, held at the Wheatsheaf, Barkway, throws a very interesting light upon the spirit in which such exhibitions were regarded by the public, and also upon the attitude of the supposed representatives of law and order, who in those days seemed to go with the majority and throw aside the official mantle whenever it was inconvenient.

Upon this point, the evidence given by Mr. John Parr, the high constable for the parish of Barkway, is especially interesting. This official candidly admits in his evidence that he saw the deceased on the Saturday before the fight, believed he was there for the purpose of fighting, that it was generally reported the fight was to take place on Melbourn Heath, and that Owen Swift was to be deceased's antagonist. On the Tuesday, witness went to see the fight, and admits the soft impeachment that he was not there for the purpose of preserving the peace, but went as a spectator! Did not see any magistrates or constables present. There were at least three thousand persons present. Saw deceased and Swift enter the ring and saw them fight for an hour-and-a-half. Saw nothing like foul play, and did not hear anyone call out "shame" when deceased was carried from the ring and put into a carriage. Saw deceased at the Wheatsheaf, Barkway, next day, when he could not speak, and appeared insensible. Saw him again on Thursday and Friday, on which latter day he found him dying, and he expired ten minutes after witness entered the room.

The evidence of Lee, the post-boy, who rode one of the "wheelers" to the fight, showed that the Marquis of Waterford's carriage was there, but he did not see the Marquis.

The jury, after hearing the evidence of Mr. James Balding, surgeon, of Barkway, who attended Brighton Bill—and made a post mortem, with the assistance of Dr. Hooper, of Buntingford—returned a verdict of manslaughter against Owen Swift and against the seconds, "Dutch Sam," otherwise Samuel Evans, Francis Redmond, Richard Curtis, and "Brown, the go-cart-man," for aiding and abetting the said Owen Swift. The jury had the courage to add this significant rider:—"The jury feel themselves called upon to express their deep regret and concern that the magistrates of the adjoining counties of Cambridgeshire, Hertfordshire, and Essex, did not interfere to prevent the breach of the peace, so notoriously expected to take place for some days previously, and also for the fact that a prize-fight having taken place at the same spot about twelve months since without their interference."

This pointed reference to a former supineness of the representatives of the law was not altogether undeserved, for, on that occasion, the same Owen Swift had fought near the same spot against Lazarus (on June 1st in the previous year) for two hours, and extending over 105 rounds—evidence of itself that the "fancy" men had it all their own way in this happy corner of no-man's-land.

That there was no attempt to disguise the object of the gathering is shown by the fact that the fight took place so near the turnpike road that "the stage coaches drew up as they passed, for some time, to allow the drivers [and the passengers!] to indulge in witnessing the spectacle." Indeed, it is recorded that the spot and time of the encounter were publicly announced two days beforehand.

It was said to be the third fatal fight in which Owen Swift had engaged, while Phelps had only fought once before, and so brutal was the onslaught, that it is said bets were offered and taken on the ground, that both men would die in consequence of the injuries received! Swift was hastily got out of the way, and it was asserted that as soon as his friends in London knew of the fatal result, four expert fellows were sent off with a view to recover the body to defeat the ends of justice by preventing an inquest, a reward of L500 being offered had they succeeded!

The seconds were arrested, but Swift got away to France. When one of the seconds, indicted as Redmond, was placed at the bar, nobody could identify him—and it is said that this was believed to be due to his manipulation of beard, &c.—but the other seconds were identified.

The case came on for trial at the Hertfordshire Assizes in the same year, before Mr. Sergeant D'Oyley.

John Parr, the constable, (and a saddler) said that he saw 60 or 70 rounds fought, and that ten or twelve were fought that he did not see. There were "persons of high consideration" there, and many gentlemen's carriages.

One of the defendants' counsel, in the face of the awful experience of the misled and gentlemanly young Phelps, had the hardihood to "energetically contend for prize-fighting, which, in the opinion of many, formed that national character of courageous fairplay which was the pride of the nation."

The jury found the prisoners guilty, but "recommended them to mercy."

Evidence of character was given, but it amounted to this, that the defendants "were quiet, good humoured people, who never took advantage of anyone."

They were sentenced to three months' imprisonment with hard labour, and "seemed overjoyed with the leniency of the Court."

In his interesting Autobiography of a Stage Coachman, Mr. Cross, who for many years drove the Lynn coach, says he saw the young man Phelps both before and after the fight, and gives the following graphic and pathetic incident. The Lynn coach, on leaving Kingsland Road, picked up three passengers, and upon its being mentioned that the coach had some fighting men inside, a clergyman, who was riding on the box, and whose wife, a young and beautiful lady, was inside, protested against allowing such company to sit in the coach with his wife; and, says Mr. Cross, his mind was set at rest by two coarse-looking fellows in rough great coats getting on the outside, and a well-dressed gentlemanly young man getting in. Upon the husband assisting his lady out, she asked him who was the gentleman who got in last; for his conversation had been extremely interesting, and she was sure by his general information he must be a gentleman of distinction at the University. Dressed in an elegant suit of black, and displaying on a delicate white hand a diamond ring, he took his place at the table at the inn for refreshments on the road, and, his manners corresponding with his appearance, no one could suspect him of being a fighting man. "Reader, this was the man known as 'Brighton Bill'—his real name I never knew, but that he was of respectable parents, and intended by them for a better calling I was convinced. When two days afterwards I saw his contused and distorted countenance, the only part visible from under the bedclothes, at the 'Wheatsheaf,' at Barkway, when he was deserted by all, and had no friend or relative near to watch over his fast-departing spirit, I could not restrain a tear. I silently, as I descended the stairs, invoked a curse on such barbarous practices, as well as on the authors of his death!"

If the writer of the above was correct in the identity of the dying pugilist with his cultured passenger, his parents or friends never came forward to recognise him. He was buried in a corner, the lower corner, of the Barkway Churchyard, and the only trace of him is in the Parish Register, which tells the simple fact of the death of William Phelps, of Brighton, Sussex, aged twenty years.

CHAPTER XIV.

OLD COACHING DAYS—STAGE WAGONS AND STAGE COACHES.

Many readers, whose lives carry them back before the "forties," taking their stand beneath the broad gateway or pebbled court-yard of our old inns—the Red Lion, the Bull, or the Crown—would require a very slight effort of memory to recall the exhilarating spectacle of the arrival and departure of the stage coach of fifty or sixty years ago. Such a person will once more hear in imagination the cheery coach horn at the town's end; and, watching for only a minute, he knows what to expect—yes, there around that critical corner at the Cross, come the steaming leaders, then a handful of reins, the portly form of the coachman, and then the huge embodiment of civilization itself comes swinging round the corner like a thing of life! Clattering up the High Street! the driver pulls them up promptly at the Lion, or the Bull, and performs that classic feat of swinging his lusty eighteen stone from the box seat with an easy grace which is the envy of every stable boy in the town! He sees once more the busy scene of bustle and animation as the steaming horses are replaced by other sleek animals fresh from the stables, and the old coach rolls on for another stage of the journey.

This, the ideal view of locomotion in the palmy days of stage-coaching, was really an evolution from something much less smart and efficient. Of that interesting evolution of the older locomotion, our old town, by the necessity of the route, saw most of the varied phases, for during many years of the century coaches rattled through our streets with kings, queens and princes, duellists and prize-fighters, daring highwaymen and Bow Street runners, romantic lovers off to Gretna Green, and School boys—poor little Nicklebies off to a Squeers' Academy—jostling inside the body of the lumbering coach, or dangling their legs from the roof as outsiders!

In glancing at the salient points of this evolution as it passed before the eyes of our grandfathers, it may be necessary to go back to the "composite" order of locomotion with the mixture of goods and passenger traffic.

A journey to London, or a distant town, for the purpose of trade or a visit, was a tedious experience full of discomfort. Following the sturdy caravan of pack-horses, the lumbering coaches, and broad-wheeled wagons of last century came the "fly wagons" in the early years of this century, and with them the possibility of poor people once in a life time getting a few miles from home, in case of absolute necessity. The old tilted fly-wagon was used not only for taking up and delivering goods too heavy to go by coach, but persons who could not afford the coach fare of 3d. a mile or thereabouts, would find a place wedged in among the goods at the back of the tilted wagon, sometimes packed away in straw to keep warm. In this way, a whole family, placed under the necessity of moving to a distant part, a comparatively rare occurrence though, have had to remain doubled up in a cramped position day and night, while the slow-going wagon creaked along its ponderous way, till the younger members of the family party peeped out of their hole and caught sight of the splendours of "the lights of London," in the long rows of oil lamps which then illuminated Kingsland Road, by which London from the north was entered, and anon the rendezvous at the "Vine," or "Four Swans," in Bishopsgate, was reached, to the intense relief of all!

In this primitive style, many a small tradesman has journeyed up to London, and, having transacted his business, has returned in the same manner two or three days afterwards.

Fly-wagons and vans travelled from London daily for Buntingford, Royston, Cambridge, Fakenham, Boston, Stamford, York and Edinburgh. Nearly all wagons on this road made their point of arrival and departure in London at Bishopsgate Street—the Four Swans, the Vine, and the Catherine Wheel being the usual inns.

The amount of goods traffic from Royston by these wagons was very considerable, especially by the Wakefield wagons which conveyed the wool from the combers in Royston to the Yorkshire Mills.